Nina

I’m still smiling to myself the next day at just how naughty we were in that restaurant last night. I never thought sex in a public restroom could be sexy, but the sheer forbidden naughtiness of it has gotten me all riled up.

It’s hard as hell to keep my hands off Brock at work today, but I just about manage. He’s a little distracted anyway—he’s got his business face on for a meeting he has this afternoon.

“You’re meeting the execs in the Lindland Hotel restaurant at 12:30,” I tell him, straightening his tie. “It’s scheduled for ninety minutes, but I’ve cleared your schedule for the rest of the day in case you run over.”

Brock smiles at me. “Thanks.”

I use the time to run a few errands. Once Brock’s gone, I collect some important priority mail and make my way down onto the street, all the while fantasizing about last night. That one’s going to live in my memory for a long time . . .

I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed Peter following me until it’s too late.

“Nina!” he shouts from behind me.

My heart sinks.

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.

“Get lost, Peter,” I tell him, walking a little faster. “You keep this crap up, honest to God, I will go to the police and get a restraining order against you. I should be able to live my life without watching over my shoulder for you.”

He rushes around and matches my pace. He looks absolutely awful. His skin is pale and mottled, his hair greasy and lank, but his eyes are the creepiest of all—they glisten with jealousy.

“He’s been making a fool out of you,” he says, his voice manic. “Just like I told you he would. But you wouldn’t listen, would you?”

I pick up my pace a little, setting my jaw, determined not to rise to the bait.

“Look at these,” he rasps. “Look!”

He shoves a cell phone in my face, and there’s nothing I can do except see the images on them.

Images of Brock and Rosa. Peter’s scrolling through them rapidly. The two of them kissing. The two of them naked, the two of them . . .

Bile rises in my throat, and I push Peter’s hand away, knocking his phone to the ground.

Don’t get drawn into his sick, twisted game. Those photos are from before when Brock and Rosa were together. Don’t let Peter make you believe otherwise.

“You think I’m a stupid?” I ask Peter. “You think I’m going to take your word over Brock’s? You’re nuts, Pete. Get lost.”

He laughs, a hollow sound entirely devoid of humor—it makes my skin crawl. He’s standing in front of me now, blocking my path. “I give you photographic evidence that he’s a scumbag cheater, and you still don’t believe me? What’s it going to take, Nina?”

I push past him as hard as I can. “Leave me alone.”

He doesn’t give up. “I know exactly where Brock goes for every single ‘meeting,’ Nina. And it’s not where he says he’s going. Believe me.”

I laugh contemptuously in his face. “Peter, I book every single one of those meetings. It’s my freaking job. You somehow think you can get me to believe that you’ve got some secret, insider knowledge? Don’t make me laugh. Stop being a creepy asshole, and leave me the hell alone.”

He doesn’t, of course—not that I expected him to. Like a dog with a goddamn bone, he just doesn’t know when to quit.

“Fine,” he sneers. “If you’re not going to take my word for it, I’ll just have to show you what Brock is really like.”

“Are you insane?” I tell him. “You think I’m going anywhere with you? Get the hell away from me.”

He grabs me by the wrist, and once again, I’m shocked at how strong his grip is, despite his unhealthy, emaciated appearance.

I cry out as he drags me into a quiet side street, but nobody even gives us a second glance. Fear spreads through me in a cold wave.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I promise,” he says in a serious voice. “All I’m trying to do is show you the truth, to stop this asshole from breaking your heart. Come with me down here, and I will leave you alone forever. I promise. You just need to see the truth. That’s all I ask.”

He stares at me expectantly, and I can’t help but feel a little pity, along with revulsion. He’s really in a bad way, and he needs professional help.

If I just go along with whatever crackpot plan he has, he might listen to me. When it all turns out to be nothing, maybe he’ll be receptive to getting some help.

“All right, Peter, you win. I’ll come see whatever it is you want me to see. But afterwards, you will promise to leave me alone, forever, and you will book an appointment to see a therapist. You need professional support. You aren’t well.”

“Sure, sure,” he mutters, not even listening to my words. “Come on. This way. It’s not far.”

And so, feeling like I’m making a terrible mistake, I follow him.